


Circle 'Round the Sun

by Polly_Lynn



Series: TARDIS-Verse [14]
Category: Castle
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 19:01:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1828846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The pull of the date had been too much for her. She tried to tell herself it was just a square on the calendar. Another circuit around the sun. That the Earth, with her on it, was still turning. Still in motion.</p><p>A TARDIS-verse story set after Always (4 x 24) with references to Knockout (3 x 24) and Rise (4 x 1) .</p>
            </blockquote>





	Circle 'Round the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second story I wrote in the TARDIS-Verse, though it's much later in show chronology than others. Again, the series has nothing to do with Doctor Who.

  
  


 

* * *

 

Put your arms around me

Like a circle 'round the sun

I'm gonna love you

When my easy ridin's done

You don't believe I love you

Look at the state I'm in

You don't believe I'm sinkin'

Look at the hole I'm in

—Stealin', Gus Cannon

* * *

 

Castle struggles awake, heart pounding. He sinks his head hard against the pillow and wills himself into stillness.

He'd woken her every night for the last eleven. Every night for the last eleven she claimed that he hadn't—that she'd already been awake—but the soft, sleepy buzz to her voice gave lie to the reassurances. Every night for the last eleven, she'd murmured in his ear, softer and softer, until she dropped back into sleep. Every night for the last eleven, he'd lain beside her and kept watch.

_Twelfth time's the charm_? He presses a cautious palm into the mattress beside him. _Quiet. . . and cold_. Rolls to his left and kicks frantically at the covers. _Empty._

The bathroom door gapes open, a black-on-black oblong in the darkness of the bedroom. His feet hit the floor and he gropes blindlyfor clothing. Never exactly meticulous about keeping his bedroom neat, now he never knows where he might find his pajama bottoms, her sleep shirt, torn away, discarded when need strikes.

_No light from the office_. He forces himself to sit a moment. Quiet. Listening. The loft's silence was unbroken.

A smudge of grey breaking up the dark expanse of floor catches his eye. He fishes a pair of boxers from beneath the night stand and stoops to snag a nearby t-shirt. He pulls them on as he stumbles through the gloom to the light switch.

He winces against the light and takes in the scene: The blankets on her side of the bed have been neatly replaced, weighted down with her pillow. Deliberate. A planned exit, not panicked flight. Is that better or worse? There is no better or worse. She's gone.

He scans the dresser, both nightstands. _No note._ He makes his way through the study, the living room, the kitchen, flicking on lights and scanning flat surfaces. _Nothing._

He takes the stairs two at a time and pushes open every door on the upper floor. _All empty._

Panic rising, he grabs the house phone on his way back to the bedroom and dials her cell. His stomach drops: A square of light appears. The phone rattles and dances across the nightstand.

* * *

 

Kate stands in the cemetery's deepest shadows, undecided. To her left is the city, sparking and pulsing at its slightly less frenetic night time pace. To her right, everything she'd left behind when she made the choice to be more.

_And yet, here you are_.

The pull of the date had been too much for her. She tried to tell herself it was just a square on the calendar. Another circuit around the sun. That the Earth, with her on it, was still turning. Still in motion.

_And yet, here you are._

It was too much for him, too, she suspects. All night, he'd been quiet, then too loud. Compensating. Too playful. Trying too hard to explain away the need to have his hands on her—always on her—as uncomplicated lust. But she saw it for what it was even before he'd coaxed her into bed earlier than usual. Run his hands and lips over every millimeter of skin. Memorizing her. Anchoring her to the here and now with almost unbearable tenderness.

It wasn't that they didn't talk. They'd spent _days_ talking, tangled up on the couch, pressed together in an armchair when even that was too much distance between them. Smiling until their cheeks ached with it. Yelping with laughter over food. Hushed conversations, forehead to forehead, breathing each other's words in and out. His first time, her first time. Apologies. Promises. Secrets. Desires.

But he was in the habit of being careful with her. And some things were still too raw, too painful even to whisper in the dark. And so, here she is.

Of their own volition, her fingers travel up to trace the scar through her shirt ( _his shirt_ _snatched from behind the night table as she crept through the darkness of the bedroom like a thief_ ). Her shoulder groans in protest, quieter than a few days ago. Still a reminder. Two reminders.

Kate steps out of the shadows and turns right.

* * *

 

He has no idea how long he's been standing there. Long enough that his own face has disappeared and the phone's screen has gone dark again. Panic pulls him in six directions at once. Pins him in place.

_Time. What time is it? How long has she been gone? Where would she go?_

Just-the-facts questions to tamp down, choke off the unthinkable: _What if . . . ? Why?_

The phone blips in his hand. A missed called indicator pops up with the time below it: 1:37. She can't have been gone long. Less than an hour, probably. She's taken nothing with her. Not her wallet, not her phone.

He stalks back through the office, through the living room. The spare key glitters in the darkness. He sinks against the door. Defeated.

He'd sworn to himself that he'd keep her out of it. Deal with the weight—the terrible weight of an unthinkable anniversary—on his own. Spare her. Spare the exquisite peace that had settled over them for the last eleven days.

He'd failed miserably. Held her too close, too carefully, his fingers burrowing beneath the neckline of her shirt to trace the topography of a year that had shattered them both and trampled the pieces.

She'd caught him staring, again and again, reverent and solemn. Let him catch her staring back: Anger, sorrow, apology, hope, desperation, fear, love, gratitude. All the things they'd have to deal with. They _would_ deal with. Just . . . not yet.

_Please, not yet_.

Was the plea his or hers? Either way, he'd swung back in the other direction, teasing, playing too hard. A reversion to the 9-year-old-on-a-sugar-rush days. She'd actually twisted his ear.

That's when he'd really lost it. Fierce nostalgia took hold of his ribs and cracked him open. Left him mourning for a different time. Before every revelation, every admission, every step toward one another, had come with heart's blood and the last breath she might ever draw. For life before the scar.

She didn't say a word when he stilled her hand. Looked her in the eye and let her see. Didn't say a word when he swept one arm under her knees, gathered her into his chest with other and carried her to the bedroom. She didn't say a word. _That's_ how spectacularly he'd failed.

And now she is . . . what? Missing? Gone.

He stares dumbly at the phone. Watches the time flick over to the next minute and the next. A different set of numbers snags his attention, speaks to him: _5-18-12_.

He knows exactly where she is.

* * *

 

It brings her to her knees. The tall, elegant spray of purple against the glittering white of the headstone. Strong grey-green shoots reaching from the center, blotting out letters, numbers. Transforming the face of it with unapologetic life.

Someone had transplanted it. Taken her stubborn November proof of life from its tiny stone pot, not much bigger than the palm of her hand, and gently surrounded it with rich, black soil. Air. Space. Room to breathe and grow. To be more.

She presses her palms to the damp earth. Closes her eyes and savors the taste of spring, promise of summer on the dark, lazy breeze.

She'd come here . . . why? Crept out of his bed ( _their bed_ ) to . . . what? Wallow? Commemorate? Relive? Die all over again?

Whatever her intentions, suddenly the moment is on her. The relentless sun. A sea of white headstones, black stick figures wrecked on a field of green. Pain—shocking pain—ripping through her, rending and twisting.

Him crashing into her. A profound need to snap, " _What the_ hell, _Castle?"_ Words trapped in the notch of her sternum, choking her. And then a frisson of warmth, excitement as his fingers slid behind her head—absurd against that particular backdrop, but undeniable. Words falling, unbidden from him. A pulse of gladness, then fear, then relief. Dying: The ultimate out from a conversation she wasn't remotely ready to have.

She huffs out a laugh in the here and now. Another follows. She claps her hands over her mouth and collapses over her knees, weak and helpless with it.

She stills an instant before he speaks. Raises her head and turns to him with a wide open smile and laughs again.

* * *

 

He is not quiet. Not careful. He has no plan other than to find her. Be sure of her. Deal with the consequences later.

The hard shell within him has cracked and need is spilling, _spilling_ out. He has been so careful. _So_ careful. And he's done.

He stumbles. Swallows a shout as bone cracks against granite. _Sorry, Milton_.

There's no sign of her here, thank God. She _there_ then. It's bad enough.

He weaves through the headstones, muscle memory guiding him, though it's been months since he gave up the idea of saving her. Bringing her the answers gift wrapped. Leading her into a world made of light where she was safe and free and his.

She is on her knees. Limp and unmoving. Her hair tumbles over her shoulder to hide her face.

He freezes. Tries to shout her name, but it's nothing more than a strangled whisper.

" _Kate._ "

He crashes to the ground beside her, wraps his arms around her like a vise. She's shaking. Or is it him? He is chanting nonsense against her shoulder and she is . . . She's laughing.

"Castle. Castle!" She struggles to put an inch of space between them. Plants a kiss on his temple in apology.

He locks his fingers around her biceps, snaps his arms straight. "Kate, what the hell is _wrong_ with you?"

She's still laughing. Deep. From her belly. She seems to be struggling for words, but they can't compete. Wave after wave of laughter comes. It infuriates him.

"This isn't _funny_ ," he yells. Shakes her.

Her back arches. A hiss of pain escapes through her teeth as her shoulder protests. Loudly.

He jerks his hands back. Stiffens. The color drains from his face.

"I'm sorry." It's barely a whisper.

She lunges, shoulder be damned. Wraps herself around him and presses her lips to whatever skin is nearby. She's laughing again, but through words now. "Castle. Castle, oh my _God_. I just left . . . I didn't even . . . oh my God, I'm sorry."

He takes her by the arms again. He's careful this time. "I hurt you."

"No. Yes." She sees his face—really _sees_ it—for the first time and sobers a little. "Just my shoulder. It's fine," she says gently.

"Really?"

She nods. Inches her knees toward him. Tries to crawl into his lap, but he holds her at arm's length.

"You're sure?"

Oh, his _face._ She suddenly knows exactly how much of a heartbreaker he was at 15. At 20. She wants to know all his stories. Every one. She bites her lip. Nods again.

"Because I am about to be really, _really_ angry with you."

His fingers skim over her face, gently trace her shoulder. Relief bleeds off him in waves. But he _is_ angry. She sees it in the muscle fluttering at the angle of his jaw. A different kind of darkness in his eyes. She fans her fingers against either cheek and kisses him. Stilling. Sobering.

"Ok," she says quietly. "Ok."

"You left."

His eyes are closed now, and the little boy is shuttered away. The last year hangs heavy on him. His broad shoulders curve inward. The corners of his mouth turn down at rest. He has aged. She doesn't feel much like laughing any more.

He takes a hitching breath and goes on. "You left in the middle of the night without no phone, no wallet and no . . . no key . . . ." He grits his teeth. Gets his voice back under control.

She tries to slide her arms around him, but he catches her wrists. His eyes are open now and it's worse.

"Were you coming back, Kate?"

His hands on her wrists are the only thing keeping her from doubling over completely. Shock and grief pull her down, down. Anger jerks her back up by the spine. "Was I coming _back?_ How can you even ask me that?"

"Were you?" His voice is hard. All clipped vowels. He drops her wrists and grabs the shoulder of her t-shirt— _his_ t-shirt. The stretched out neckline gapes, leaving her shoulder bare.

"Did you walk here? Get on the subway looking like this? Do you have any idea what a _target_ you look like? Are you tying to get yourself killed? After _everything_ are you . . . ." His voice is breaking now and he _hates_ himself. "Are you _still_ trying to get yourself killed?"

And just like that, her anger is gone. She sees herself through his eyes. The unreal quality of the last eleven days. Sees how much work she has to do. How much work _they_ have to do.

"I'm not, Castle," she says quietly. She looks down at herself. Smooths her hands over the frayed hem of the t-shirt. "This . . . this was stupid. I wasn't thinking. The date . . ."

"I know the _fucking date_." He chokes it out. It's not a sob. It's fury.

She has never seen him this angry. _Never._ Incongruous laughter bubbles up in her again, and it's _so_ strange. It's not a defense mechanism. It's _hope_ and conviction and certainty. He's angry and she she sees everything that came before. Everything that will come after. She pushes the laughter down. It's not the time for it. But soon. Right now, she's going in.

"I know you know the _fucking date_ , Castle," she snaps, "and you didn't say a fucking word. So _I_ couldn't say a fucking word. And you have to stop . . . _not saying_ things."

She feels his shoulders loosen. A puzzled frown creases his brow.

"If you copy edit me, I am going to _kick you in the head_."

He laughs at that. Shaky and more than a little resentful, but he laughs.

She grabs a fistful of his t-shirt and leans in. "I am not going anywhere. I am not trying to get myself killed."

He nods. Looks down. She can see him tidying it all away. The anger. The fear. Packing it up and stowing it out of sight.

She jerks him closer. Whispers, "If you say you're sorry right now, I will also kick you in the head."

"I . . . ." He snaps his mouth shut hard enough to rattle his teeth.

She takes mercy on him and fills the silence, "Do you remember the last time we were here?"

His eyes meet hers just for a second. They spark and skitter away, but not before she sees it: The wickedness. Oh, he _remembers._

"Are we . . . are we allowed to talk about that? That was a time out." He tips his head forward. Doesn't quite hide the ghost of a grin.

She could just eat him up right now. _Time enough for that later_. Time enough. But first . . .

"You warned me, that night, Castle. That you couldn't . . . _wouldn't_ stand by and watch me hurt myself. " Her voice is low. Serious. "That was the first time I was sure."

"Sure," he repeats absently. One finger trails over the faint scar on her wrist.

She flips her arm over and grabs his hand, lightning fast. His head snaps up.

"Sure that this could work." She gestures between them with their joined hands. "That I wouldn't take us both down in flames."

"Kate." He brings her wrist to his lips. Brushes them over the scar.

"Let me _finish,_ " she snaps as she jerks free. "No touching!"

He laughs at that, too. An ugly, damp snort. "Yes ma'am."

She waits while he drags his hands deliberately over her thighs and folds them in his own lap. The picture of innocence. Oh, she'll _get_ him for that.

"I listened, Castle. I _heard_ you." Her mouth twists up in a grimace. Oh, this is _hard_. "When the Captain's address came back . . . when that DNA came back. I . . . stopped. I stopped hearing you."

"I . . . you . . . what I did . . ." His jaw works furiously. His hands worry at a loose thread on his jeans.

"Would you do it again?" she asks quietly.

He swallows. Starts to say something and stops. He's not whispering, but his voice is barely there. "I don't know what else I could have done. I'd just gotten you . . . you'd just let me . . . ." He heaves a sigh and looks away. "I don't know what else I could have done."

She doesn't say anything for a long time, which isn't surprising. Neither does he. Which is. Maybe one of them was always meant to die here. It seem to be him. He's perversely glad.

"I don't know what else I could have done, either, Castle," she says finally. Then, in a completely different tone, "I was laughing when you got here."

"Yeah." His voice is flat. He wonders why she's drawing this out.

"Don't you want to know why?"

He's _so_ tired all of a sudden, "Beckett. Just let me take you . . . somewhere. Your apartment. You can't walk . . ."

She grabs him by the ear. Twists. _It hurts_. And then she's running her tongue over it. Dragging her lips down it, with just a hint of teeth. _Oh,_ god _, what is she_ doing?

Growling in his ear and driving him insane, apparently. "I am not going anywhere but home. With you. But first you're going to shut up and listen."

He stills. Gives the barest nod.

"I was thinking about that day. _This_ day. Everything. How much it _hurt_. Hitting the ground. I didn't understand at first. Why you'd do that. Slam into me and take me down when it already hurt . . . _so much_. I wanted to yell. Scream. But everyone was screaming for me. Everyone but you."

She presses her thumbs to the corners of her eyes and swipes tears away. He lets his fall.

"When you said . . . ." She can't help stumbling over it.

"When I told you that I loved you," he prompts. Corrects himself, because it seems critically important right now. "That I love you."

"That you love me."

She gives him that once-in-a-life-time smile. For the third time. Ok, yeah. He can die right here. It's all good.

"Do you know what I thought, Castle?"

He shakes his head, eyes fixed on hers.

"I thought, 'Oh, thank _God'_." She laughs and rolls her eyes. "'Thank _God._ I'm going to die right here and I don't have to deal with _that._ ' That's who I was last year, Castle. That is how fucked up I was. That I would rather die than have what I already knew out in the open. That I would rather die than step up and figure out how to live."

He's sure there are a hundred things he should say. He can't think of a single one.

"I . . . regret . . . so much from this last year." She stares at him intently. Lets her eyes speak, "But who I was. Who you were. I don't know what else we could have done."

"Kate, I'm . . ." He's what? Other than a chronic inability to shut up, he has no idea why he opened his mouth.

"You're angry and you're hurt and you don't trust me." She sees that he's going to deny it and rushes on. "And I'm angry and I'm hurt and you are the _only_ person in 13 years I have even come close to knowing _how_ to trust. And what you did? Jesus, Castle that _hurts_. And you have to let me be angry. And I have to let you be angry. And we can't stay in bed forever being _gentle_ with this."

They're both silent a long while. He looks away first. It's a terrible moment.

And then it comes. His voice, sly and rough and _full_ , "Are you sure we can't stay in bed, Beckett? I don't have to be gentle."

She stares for a moment and then she's in his lap. And he's _not_ gentle.

"Castle," she groans and pulls away, "Castle. It's . . . we're. Let's go. This is . . . ." She dips her head and kisses him in apology.

"Tacky? Disturbing?" He begins the lengthy process of sorting out their limbs.

Her hand goes to the seat of her jeans and comes away muddy, "Yes. And yes. And Wet."

He clambers to his feet. Slides his hands under her ams and gently pulls her with him, "I'm good with wet," he breathes in her ear. "Used to wet. Have . . . fond memories of wet."

She laughs and bats him way, but not too far. Slides her arm around his waist. Revels in the secure weight of his across her shoulders. "You drove?"

"Yes, Beckett," he says, tugging her toward the path. "I am not a crazy person, so I drove."

"Take me home, Castle."

  



End file.
